The car vibrates like a passive massage
Clanking sounds and increased shaking
Calmly the driver does assuage
Our fears of it stopping or breaking
The Prophet of the Backseat doth protest
"Nay," says he, "I do foresee
An explosion of some dangerous degree
Then shall one of those winsome trucks
Bearing cargo and other heavy stuff
Run thee over like a roadkill crepe,
And then we shall mourn our late driver pancake.
Do trust me, truly, I would know,
In just a few seconds, I'll have told you so."
"And from what god does your foresight flow?"
"Naturally, from watching Game of Thrones!"
"Ah yes, indeed, what an educational show."
The shaking in the seats is still not gone
The quaking engine is still going on
The driver, he capitulates to our pleas
And considers stopping off at the next station
But maybe the engine will find its own way to peace
Why should we worry about some minor vibration?
Surely there is no need for such frustration
This car was built from the steel of the ancients
'Twas once a chariot, the pride of its nation
The marks on the windshield are scars of war
Its frictionless wheels are eternally greased
"Eighteen years," he repeats, "it will last eighteen more…"
Just then, his right wheel goes out with a bang
And the engine, it dies with a drawn out clang
The driver, surprised, decides to find out
What the fuss is about - we yell, "LOOK OUT!"
He is thus nearly crushed
In another truck's rush
(Next time he will use the other door to get out
That is not on the same side as the auto route).
The prophet he smirks, see his prediction prior.
"Well that is unfortunate," the man does declare.
"But sadly words that describe that tire
Also apply to my right spare."
How many Knowledge Bowl kids does it take
To change a tire or turn on the brakes?
We venture to the underworld (well, actually a Goodyear location)
Where the lord of death explains our tire's deflation
And the prophet enjoys a conversation
With a veteran about past wars (he has a fixation)
And an honors student makes an observation.
"These wheels smell like spaghetti."
What a strange olfactory sensation.
And so, when we gather together, all ready,
By manner of cellphone, our muse is evoked.
She promises us all a ride back home
Having eaten our fill of popcorn to go,
The three of us we stand in a single file queue
The ferryman picks up the Knowledge Trio
And we bid the hapless driver adieu.
(Until his car is repaired, he cannot come along
Hopefully the mechanics won't take too long
But he himself is fond of rhymes...
Maybe he can recite poetry to pass the time?)